


You Have to Want it to Work

by CrayolaDinosaurs



Series: Sherlock: Origins [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Drug Addiction, Drugs, Gen, My Own Head Canon, Overdosing, Pre Study in Pink, Recreational Drug Use, Sibling Love
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-05-12
Updated: 2012-06-06
Packaged: 2017-11-05 05:02:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,556
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/402714
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CrayolaDinosaurs/pseuds/CrayolaDinosaurs
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Mycroft discovers Sherlock's drug use, he is forced into rehab.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter One

He couldn’t escape the noise. There was nothing he could do to shut out the deafening and absolute silence that enveloped his existence. Loneliness crippled him. No. He wasn’t lonely, he was alone. He didn’t need anyone. People were idiots, not worth his time. But the smothering emptiness was relentless. Pushing in from all sides. Taunting. Teasing. Screaming.

And then the needle pierced his skin and he felt relief. While the quiet had not dissipated, when you were lonely to your core it never did, he realized the ache had lessened. The hard edges of the madness had softened. The intensity embraced him instead of prodding him. The sickening hush became a serene calm. The syringe fell from his fingertips and he floated to the floor.

Nothingness overtook him.

…………………………………………….

Mycroft Holmes hadn’t seen his brother in weeks. His calls went unanswered, as did his texts and emails, and while he and Sherlock were not friendly, he had never been ignored this thoroughly. He was worrying constantly. He checked his texts during meetings. He checked his emails at cocktail parties. He left voicemails while visiting the bathroom during Embassy dinners. It had reached the point of distraction. He tapped his fingers on his chin in aggravation before checking his calendar and making note of a block of free time at 5 o’clock. Mycroft would be talking to Sherlock today, whether he liked it or not.

Sherlock’s building was dingy and falling into disrepair. The multi-story building was leaning to the left and the bricks had long since passed “rustic”. The three wooden steps leading to the front door were worn and splintering; the railing, rusted and dangerous. Mycroft rang the bell with the tip of his umbrella and was let in by a squat landlady in a dressing gown with no more than five teeth. But the dental hygiene of a woman with an obvious history of drug use and prostitution was the least of Mycroft’s worries, because as soon as he walked in, a truly appalling stench filled his nostrils. His eyes watered as he began to cough. He stumbled forward pulling a handkerchief from his pocket. Covering his face with the navy cloth, he carefully ascended the stairs, sidestepping to avoid various insects and arachnids, and choosing to ignore the occasional pile of what could only be rat droppings.

Adjusting his umbrella to hang from the crook of his elbow, Mycroft knocked strongly on his brother’s door. He waited. There was no answer. He leaned in closer, his ear almost pressing against the coarse wood of the door, and knocked again. Not a hint of motion from the other side. Mycroft sighed in annoyance. Assuming his brother was out gallivanting through the city again, Mycroft calmly picked the lock. He would place himself on the sofa in clear view of the door. He would wait as long as it took and he would be inescapable when Sherlock returned.

But Mycroft wouldn’t get to relish the brief flash of surprise on Sherlock’s face before it was masked with annoyance. He stepped into the poorly lit room and his eyes fell immediately to the body on the floor. On its back, thin, almost skeletal, half-naked, covered in scars, track marks in the left arm and both lower legs, racing pulse, labored breathing, slight tremor in most muscle groups, mop of dark curls plastered to the forehead with sweat, wide staring opalescent eyes.

Mycroft couldn’t breathe. The eyes of his baby brother stared at him from a body he wouldn’t recognize if it sat next to him at Christmas dinner. He fell to his knees by Sherlock’s head, for once not caring about the state of his suit. He leaned forward, his hands shaking as he took Sherlock’s pulse. 103 BPM. Mycroft grabbed his phone from his pocket and hurriedly dialed 999. His voice was tight as he explained the situation, fighting against the urge to yell at the unfeeling calm from the other end of the line. Once certain that the Sherlock was the highest priority, Mycroft ended the call. He exhaled shakily as he returned to Sherlock’s side. Gathering his brother in his arms, Mycroft carefully smoothed the hair from Sherlock’s clammy forehead.

There they sat. Mycroft rocking Sherlock, making soothing sounds, stiffening his body against the rising tremors, hoping against hope that this wouldn’t be the last time he hugged his brother. And if tears were rolling down his face when the paramedics arrived seventeen minutes later, no one mentioned them.


	2. Chapter Two

It wasn’t silent anymore. Sherlock could hear the beeping of machinery, the clacking of shoes on tile, muted exclamations; the bustle of a world in motion. He tried to open his eyes, but found they weren’t cooperating. Sherlock was tired. Exhaustion weighed down his body forcing him to lie there, wherever there was. Agitation, and a nagging sense of fear, pricked at the back of his mind. Someone was watching him. He needed to sleep. No, he needed more cocaine. He just needed to get up. He fought the fatigue that coursed through his body. He felt a stab of triumph when his fingers twitched, but it was quickly snuffed when a warm weight gripped them. The hold was tight, almost painful. Sherlock began to panic, but the hold loosened and started to rub the back of his hand. The soothing motion filled Sherlock with a strange calm. Sleep claimed him.

…………………………………………….

He thrashed in his sheets. He tried to call for help but he couldn’t make a sound. No one would hear him if he did. He was alone. The silence was pressing in, its sharp edges digging into his tender flesh; absolute nothingness all around. He needed the needle. He craved the pain of the puncture and the euphoria of the high. He yearned for refuge from the blankness. The syringe was a comfortable weight in his hand. The point pierced his skin and he pressed the plunger, eager for escape. Nothing. There was no rush, no relief. The nothing had hijacked the needle, using it to push farther into him. The numbness was excruciating. The darkness was blinding. The quiet was deafening. He woke with a shout. The calming contact on his hand was gone.

Sherlock lay awake for hours, a battle raging between his rationality and his reactions. The dream had been unsettling. If he weren’t a Holmes, he would say frightening, terrifying even, but being scared of a dream isn’t logical. Dreams are just images, simply firing synapses, a mere side effect the consolidation of information. They can’t harm you. They aren’t real. Oh, but the vividness of this one… No. His mind fought to rein in the fear centers. He clenched his jaw and rolled onto his side. Curling himself into a ball, he buried his face in the pillow. Alone in the dark, he cried himself to sleep.

…………………………………………….

Sherlock was restless. He steepled his fingers beneath his chin as his toes tapped out a cadence on the mattress. He was in a hospital. He’d been here for at least three days. How he’d managed to end up here reeked of Mycroft’s interference. He must have walked in on Sherlock mid-high. He would be insufferable now that he’d discovered another of Sherlock’s numerous “failings”. Sherlock could envision their interactions in his mind. Mycroft’s face would not belie his emotions, but Sherlock would be able to see it in his eyes. There would be disappointment of course, but it would be tinged with a haughty inevitability; the belief that he had seen it coming. Sherlock, the consummate screw up, falling short, again.

Sherlock shook his head to derail that train of thought. It wasn’t worth it. Back to the facts: Mycroft had put him in a hospital. Why Mycroft thought he needed a hospital, Sherlock didn’t know. He was in control of his drug use. He’d developed the cocaine solution himself. Months of experimentation had gone into its creation. 7%, the perfect concentration to optimize the euphoria and assuage the emptiness. So, he’d blacked out. That wasn’t an issue. He had passed out before. Loss of consciousness provided the most complete sanctuary from sentiment. It was under control. He was fine.

…………………………………………….

Sherlock itched for another hit. He needed to get out of this hospital and back to his flat, back to the lovely wooden box hidden under the floorboards, back to the sting of the needle, back to the bliss of cocaine. He had started avoiding sleep, knowing that the only thing that accompanied it were the dreams. Haunting dreams filled with the need and the execution, but ending only in hollowness. But his waking hours weren’t any better. Exhaustion tore at him. A cloying blankness occupied his mind. People circulated in and out. He was surrounded by nurses, doctors, therapists, technicians, and Sherlock had never felt more alone.

…………………………………………….

Work had kept Mycroft away from Sherlock for almost a week. He had left after the first night, squeezing as he extricated himself from his brother’s hand. His boss needed him. Mycroft promised himself that when he was in charge, nothing would keep him from ensuring Sherlock’s safety and comfort. When he had the power, he would stop the world to guarantee that nothing hurt his baby brother again.

When Mycroft entered the room, Sherlock was terrorizing the nurses. He was being held down by two while another cowered in the corner as Sherlock shouted of her husband’s homosexual infidelities for everyone to know. Mycroft cleared his throat to announce his presence. Sherlock stilled and turned on him, his eyes narrowing in bitter resentment. He grabbed the apple off his lunch tray and launched it across the room. Mycroft calmly and deftly grabbed it from the air and straightened his suit, sighing. Mycroft took a large bite as their eyes met, Sherlock’s icy blues glaring daggers at Mycroft’s tired greens. The nurses, taking full advantage of Sherlock’s motionless seething, administered a sedative. Before he lost consciousness, Sherlock managed to grind out three words, “I hate you.”

…………………………………………….

Mycroft sat, absentmindedly tracing one finger over his mouth. Sherlock jerked in his sleep, groaning quietly. Mycroft was reaching out to comfort him when Sherlock’s words struck him again. _“I hate you”_. He stopped, his hand hovering over Sherlock’s. Surely he hadn’t meant it. The hostility must have branched from the withdrawal. He couldn’t honestly hate Mycroft. Sherlock didn’t know what he was saying. Mycroft buried his head in his hands. He knew better than that. While the craving for cocaine may have added some vitriol to Sherlock’s words, he knew the underlying meaning was the same. Their relationship had been uneasy for years, and now, Sherlock would resent him, hate him, because he had discovered Sherlock’s secret; had walked in on a moment of weakness. Lost in thought, he didn’t notice Sherlock’s awakening until his voice, rough from sleep, broke through his reverie.

“Your thinking is annoying me. Leave.”

Mycroft’s pressed his fingers into his eyes and fought the urge to sigh, “You shouldn’t be alone right now, Sherlock.”

“Alone is what I have,” Sherlock spat back. “Alone protects me.”

Mycroft stood and loomed over Sherlock angrily. Struggling to keep his emotions in check, he managed to keep his voice low and even, “Was being alone protecting you last week when I found you lying on your floor drugged out of your mind?”

Sherlock’s eyes widened in shock and then narrowed in rebellion, “I had everything under control. You didn’t have to interfere.”

“I didn’t have to-,” Mycroft chuckled, but there was no humor in it, “You’re absolutely right, Sherlock, as usual. I didn’t. I didn’t have to. I could have walked away when you didn’t answer your door. I could have seen you mid-overdose and walked out. I could have left you there, in that horrendous excuse for a flat, surrounded by rot and decay, trembling, sweating, struggling to breathe, until your self-induced sinus tachycardia beat your heart into an early grave.” Sherlock’s eyes had slowly widened until he resembled the little boy Mycroft had grown up with. Mycroft leaned over and whispered, “Yes. I didn’t have to do anything, but I did. So, please, continue to tell me how being alone has helped you.”

And with that, Sherlock’s resentment snapped into place, “So, you don’t think I should be alone. What is your sitting here doing that the merry-go-round of nurses coming through every five minutes isn't?”

Mycroft stiffened. “Fine,” he turned angrily and walked to the door, pausing before he exited. He turned back to say more, but closed his mouth. One day he would tell Sherlock how selfish he was being. One day Mycroft would tell Sherlock that no matter what, he wasn't alone. One day Mycroft would be able to express the depth of emotion he felt for Sherlock. "One day," Mycroft barely breathed. He slid from the room.

Sherlock rolled onto his side. He wanted to be angry. He wanted white-hot rage to fill him. He wanted to fight. He wanted to argue. He wanted someone to care enough to make him hurt. He wanted to yell and scream and hit things. He wanted to be hit. He wanted to feel bruises form. He wanted to feel pain or wrath or guilt, but he didn’t. He couldn't feel anything anymore. He was empty. He was numb. He was alone.


	3. Chapter Three

Sherlock sat, lounging in the plush armchair. Sunlight streamed through the large windows. Boredom clawed at him. He could feel it upending his internal structure and banging at his ribcage, while his mind whirred uselessly through the void that had slowly begun to occupy more and more of his being. Pulling his knees to his chest, Sherlock curled his toes into the cushion. He pushed the heel of his hands into his eyes until the darkness was flecked with white and pain set in. It was only day one.

Day one of the ridiculously posh and fearsomely secretive rehabilitation which Mycroft had deemed necessary. Day one of meaningless counseling. Most importantly, day one of wondering whether or not he could hang himself with the silk cord of his dressing gown. Not that he would, but the emptiness had long since given up its silence, gently but firmly reminding him of all his numerous shortcomings, reminding him that there was no one to miss him, soothing his tired mind with whispers of harsh truths.

It was 3:19. So far, Sherlock had reduced three nurses to tears, shredded the credibility of a doctor who had obviously lied on his résumé, and deduced that the head of the facility and one of the orderlies were both having completely separate affairs with the same male patient. Sherlock ran his long fingers through his tangled curls, each painful snag a reminder of his vitality and vulnerability. His weakness. He growled under his breath, cursing Mycroft, and his extensive connections, in his thoughts, cursing the locals and tourists currently occupying Harrogate, the spa town that had become his Purgatory.

Sherlock sighed, more of a quick and aggressive exhalation than a sound of self-pity, unfolding himself and rising from the chair, graceful and languid. The hard white tile was cold beneath his bare feet as he padded through the corridors to his room. He tried not to notice the cameras that seemed to watch his every move. He tried not to notice the blank walls and the impersonal furniture. He tried not to notice the clinical environment masked with cold mahogany and Egyptian cotton. But he was Sherlock Holmes and all he did was notice.

He threw himself onto the bed, face first, burying his head in the pillow. He slowed his breathing and tried not to count the seconds as they passed. He fought the urge to scream and break things. He clenched and unclenched his fists in a steady rhythm accented by the slight melodic motion of his toes. Hours passed and the room fell into darkness and eventually even that movement stilled. It was the early hours of the morning when Sherlock found the bliss of slumber.

…………………………………………….

When Sherlock awoke in a cold sweat, feeling the ache of old screams in his throat, it took everything he had to avoid the painful burn of tears. He gritted his teeth and tightened his fists until his fingernails bit into his skin, battling his childish desire to call out for his brother. 23 minutes later, his emotions back in control, Sherlock rolled from his bed. He hadn’t thought it possible, but the floor seemed to have dropped 10 degrees in the night, and he hissed as his feet made contact.

He didn’t bother getting dressed; he felt no need to make himself presentable for these people. He simply wrapped his dressing gown tighter and swept into the common room. He was making his way to the same overstuffed armchair he had taken over the day before when he was intercepted by a petite blond orderly. She smiled warmly at him and he scowled in response.

“Mr. Holmes,” his scowl deepened, “your group therapy session is scheduled for noon. Your private session, at 4:30.”

Sherlock raised an eyebrow as she continued.

“And before you think about skiving off, you should know, I have been given license to use any means necessary to get you there, and I have no qualms about using bodily force.”

“That would be terribly ambitious of you,” he dead panned.

The woman merely grinned at him, bounced on the balls of her feet, and winked. “Noon. Don’t be late, sir.”

Sherlock glanced at the clock. 11:37. He needed a cigarette.

…………………………………………….

Sherlock ground his teeth together, the slight popping in his jaw a painful, but welcome, distraction from the tedium of the problems of others. Currently a woman; hefty, red-head (dyed, not natural), history of sexual abuse from a close relative (most likely an uncle); was blubbering about how her absent father had attributed to her opiate addiction. Sherlock’s admittedly threadbare patience was ready to snap.

“I just don’t know what to do anymore,” the woman finally sniffed. Sherlock’s eyes narrowed.

“I’m quite certain sleeping with your therapist shouldn’t have been your first step,” he interjected lazily. The woman began to tear up and the man on her right looked scandalized. Sherlock turned on him and absorbed his careful posture and multiple ligature marks. “Don’t be too falsely outraged as I know for a fact that you have indulged in what you think is kinky sex with at least three members of this group.” Taking in the expressions that developed around him, he amended, “Oh, make that four.”

The subsequent outcry that occurred distracted the group leader enough for Sherlock to slip away unnoticed.

…………………………………………….

His private session was much more difficult to maneuver. His therapist, a stocky, balding man of about 65 years, seemed content to just sit and watch him. Sherlock, while not usually averse to the silence of those he deemed unimportant, was strangely discomfited by the man’s almost unblinking stare. This uncomfortable quiet bordered too closely to the aching noiselessness of his nightmares. He cracked his knuckles to keep from scratching at his track marks. The clock on the wall taunted Sherlock with the painful slowness of time. Logically, he knew that time was a construct. It only felt slow, but he could hear a fly buzzing by the window and Einstein’s Theory of Relativity seemed to slip through the cracks that had formed in his existence. The seconds ticked by, echoing loudly in Sherlock’s off-center mind.

He began to tap his toes, but his feet couldn’t settle on a rhythm. Each foot fighting for dominance, randomly switching time-signatures and adding unusual syncopation. The therapist, Sherlock had forgotten his name, cocked his head slightly to the left. Sherlock fluffed his hair with an unsatisfying scratch. He made eye contact then quickly looked away. He heard the slide of pen on paper. He began to pick out minute details from the room to distract himself, desperately grabbing on to anything, making obvious deductions. The teacup on the desk (small, blue, handle fractured and repaired multiple times, a favorite then, something of sentimental value). His therapist’s shoes (professional, aged, almost 10 years of wear, polished regularly, scuffs on the toe and heel, not much manual labor, of course not, therapist).

When the therapist closed his notebook and capped his pen, Sherlock’s nerves were on edge. He felt frazzled in a way that he could not control nor explain, but his fingers had never itched for a syringe more.

The man sighed, so softly Sherlock may have imagined it, and looked up at him, “I’ll see you tomorrow, Sherlock.”

Sherlock stood with an outward grace that belied none of his inner turmoil, nodded succinctly at the therapist, and swept from the room.

…………………………………………….

Sherlock couldn’t sleep. The hours of darkness loomed over him. Without his usual escape, Sherlock was getting restless. He lost hours that could be spent sleeping in large chunks. Time passed but he had no knowledge of where it had run off to. 2:13 am. He ran his fingers over his mouth. 3:58 am. He pressed the heels of his hands to his temples. 4:36 am. He wished for the hollow longing to stop. 5:27 am. He scratched at his forearms until they bled.


End file.
